Beyond the Sea
by Rambling Scribe
Summary: Post S7. Harry contemplates the past, the present and his future... Spoilers for the end of S7.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **_**Spooks**_** is not mine – it belongs to Kudos and the BBC. **

**Sorry I've not posted anything for a while but real life problems have taken up most of my time over the last few months. I know I have a couple of unfinished fics – they're not forgotten. In the meantime, this is the first part of a little pre-series 8 story. Just to be on the safe side, I'll say spoilers for the end of series 7.**

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Harry watches, amused, as the two officers sent to keep an eye on him attempt to feign casual conversation and not get caught observing him. It's not an ideal location for surveillance – the hotel is barely a third full and its expensive bar is obviously not the venue of choice for a Monday evening. He doesn't feel sorry for them though, quite the opposite; it's good training, they should take advantage of the opportunity.

His gaze drifts around the room as he weighs up whether anyone else is a plant; not that he doubts Malcolm's information but there's always the small risk that someone else has been brought in at the last moment. His eyes settle on a blonde perched on a stool at the bar. She looks vaguely familiar and as he's wondering whether she's one of their honey-trap agents, she smiles at him.

It takes him just a couple of seconds to make the decision to go and talk to her. He finishes his drink, stands up and walks over to the bar. His steps are even, unhurried. This is merely an opportunity to find out whether she's there to check up on him; or tempt him. He'll play along, for a while at least.

"Can I get you a drink?" he offers, placing his empty glass on the bar.

"That's very kind of you. I'll have a vodka tonic," she says, enthusiastically, and gives him a toothy smile. "I'm Valerie, by the way."

"John," Harry replies.

He discreetly appraises her as he waits for their drinks. She's not unattractive but she's overdone; trying a bit too hard, showing a bit too much cleavage, leaning a bit too close. If she is one of their agents, she's out of practice he concludes.

They make small talk, even flirt a little but Harry's heart is not in it and he finds himself reminded of a game he and Bill used to play. They would be in a bar or a pub and Bill would find the two most attractive women in the place and start to chat them up. Harry would be drawn into the conversation and would eventually end up with the girl Bill had decided was not falling for his charms

"_You seem to forget I've got a wife at home,"_ Harry would wearily remind his friend.

"_Well then, make an excuse and leg it, or…" _

The sentence would never be completed but Bill would wink at him and the implication was clear.

Most of the time, Harry made an excuse; on the occasions when he didn't, he'd always ended up regretting it, apart from that one girl, Maeve, a particularly pretty brunette with deep brown eyes that glittered with amusement. She was only seventeen, not that he'd known that at the time. They'd continued to see each other for several weeks but, inevitably, there had been trouble, which arrived in the form of her four older brothers. He'd been lucky to escape with a severe beating. Later, after one of Bill's girlfriends had patched him up as best she could, Harry had stood in front of his wife and lied his head off to try and save his marriage. Grudgingly, Jane had eventually agreed she believed his story about his injuries being the result of an incident connected to his work but he'd known from the look on her face that she would never trust him again.

"I said my glass seems to be empty."

Valerie's barely concealed irritation brings Harry back to the present. He smiles, apologetically, and catches the eye of the barman.

Watching his companion down half her drink in one go, Harry decides he's had enough. He reaches into his jacket pocket, locates his phone and presses a couple of the buttons. The prearranged signal works and within a minute his phone is ringing. He excuses himself and walks out of the bar towards reception.

"Is there a problem, Harry?"

"I just needed a get-out clause, Malcolm. And for you to do me a favour. You've access to the hotel CCTV?"

"Of course." The reply is accompanied by the sound of rapid typing. "What do you need?"

"There's a blonde sitting at the bar. She's wearing a dark blue dress, rather...clingy."

"The dress or the blonde?" Malcolm enquires, dryly.

"Very funny. I'm certain she's one of ours, or at least used to be. She's-" Harry pauses for a moment as a giggly young couple pass him, "she's using the name 'Valerie' but that could be one of a dozen aliases."

"Leave it with me and I'll call you back as soon as I find anything."

Harry ends the call and glances back towards the bar. Valerie is busy re-applying her lipstick, so he takes the opportunity to move out of her sightline, towards the main entrance.

He walks without purpose, crossing the hotel drive and heading towards the road. The night air is clear and cool, heavy with the scent of the sea and Harry finds himself drawn to the marina, a few hundred yards away. He sits down on a wooden bench and, as he takes in the view, he finds himself wondering if _she_ likes boats. The irony of the thought hits him as soon as the idea forms in his head; he doubts she's set foot on another boat since she left London. _Left him_, his brain adds despite his efforts to ignore it. He takes a deep breath and allows himself to recall their last moments together.

The memory of that drab, grey morning hasn't diminished, and the aching loneliness that fills his heart never lessens. It's grief but not grieving, not in the true sense of the emotion. She's somewhere in the world, living her life, and occasionally thinking of him. The arrival of her first postcard had sent him into turmoil. At first, he was terrified that her actions would lead to her being caught. Then he analysed the message written on the card, torturing himself with the thought that it was her way of saying goodbye, once and for all, despite the ambiguity of the words. Seven and half weeks later, the second postcard dropped onto the doormat. And they continued, at irregular intervals; pictures of places, paintings, statues and monuments. A brightly coloured, much treasured assortment of cards, some with just a simple message, others with quotations or poetry, all written with love.

He'd thought about using the cards to try and trace her but she was too clever to give any hint of where she was. A postcard of Paris had been franked in Melbourne; one from the Grand Canyon was postmarked Berlin. And he'd had no information about her new identity or where she'd been heading on the day she'd left. But that had changed after the deaths of Adam and Zaf; now there are two small envelopes, locked away in a safe deposit box, which contain the details he needs to begin to search for her, not that he's started. He can't shake off the fear that attempting to find her will put her in danger.

He's still trying to sort out his tangled thoughts when his phone rings.

"Malcolm?"

"Your blonde in the clingy dress. Her name is Vivien Glasbrook. You were right, she was one of ours. 'Retired' in 1999, apparently after she messed up a job involving Special Branch and 6. Caused a bit of a furore."

"I remember something about that," Harry replies, "involved a Saudi businessman and a couple of MPs."

"That's right. And a tabloid reporter."

"Things must be desperate if they've resorted to using her again. God knows what they think I'm up to."

"I suppose it's because…" Malcolm's voice falters.

"Because they think I've changed sides," Harry states, dryly. "If they carry on like this, I could give it serious consideration."

Nervous laughter greets the comment.

"Don't worry Malcolm, I'm joking. Thanks for the information," he adds. "I'll let you get on with your evening."

After he ends the call, Harry is left wondering how he is going to spend the next few days. It's been so long since he's had a holiday that he can barely remember what he's supposed to do to fill the time. He won't be able to truly relax; recent events and his uninvited companions mean he needs to keep his wits about him. His gaze returns to the array of cabin cruisers and yachts, gently bobbing on the inky water. There's a sign advertising boat charters. His lips curve into a small smile and he wonders if his watchers get seasick.

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Thanks for reading. Second part soon. :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2. Still not mine, sadly. Slightly tricky chapter to write so I hope it all makes sense..**

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The seagull lazily stretches its wings, momentarily lifting itself into the air, and then settles back onto the railing.

"This is _my_ lunch," Harry says, giving the bird a baleful look.

It squawks in response, making him laugh, and he relents, throwing the remains of his sandwich towards it. The gull moves quickly, grabbing the pieces of bread in its hooked beak before flying off into the distance. As he watches it go, Harry feels some regret that this is the last day of his holiday. He'd forgotten how much he enjoyed the sense of freedom sailing gave him. Even the solitude hasn't bothered him and he's welcomed the opportunity to get his thoughts in order and plan what he will do when he returns to London. For the first time in a long while he feels hopeful, and the prospect of life after MI5 doesn't seem quite so daunting.

He finishes his drink and looks at his watch. He still has another hour or so before he needs to start heading back down the coast to the spot he has chosen for his last night afloat. Enough time, he decides, for another beer and a couple more chapters of his book.

On his way back from the galley, he checks to see if his watchers are anywhere in sight but there is no sign of them. Harry smiles; no doubt there was a very unhappy Section Head at Thames House who had realised how much the surveillance team's boat charter was costing and had called them off.

He settles himself down, propping his feet up on the lifejacket locker, and is soon lost in his book.

-x-

Harry makes a final check to ensure the boat is securely anchored. Content that all is well, he stands and watches the last of the light slowly fade as the sun sinks below the horizon. As the sky darkens and the first stars begin to appear, he considers the events of two weeks ago, and one conversation in particular.

_Exhausted from his debrief, Harry wearily climbed the stairs to the roof. It's the one place in Thames House where he can have some peace and quiet and he's looking forward to having a little time to himself. As he stepped onto the sun-warmed flagstones, he was mildly irritated to see someone standing with their back to him. The feeling soon dissipated when he realised it was Jo. _

_She turned around when she heard his footsteps. "They finally let you out then."_

"_They did. I managed to convince them that two and half days wasn't quite enough time for the Russians to turn me although it was a bit touch and go at one point," he remarked, wryly. _

_Jo laughed. "I'm…" she stopped, shifted uneasily from one foot to the other and looked away from him._

"_You're what," he prompted, gently._

"_I'm glad you're back. That you're OK. I-I can't imagine the Grid without you." She blushed profusely as the words spilt out of her mouth._

_He's left speechless by the sentiment. _

"_I'm glad to be back as well," he eventually replied, "although my permanent return has been delayed for a couple of weeks. I've been told to take some leave."_

"_An enforced holiday?"_

"_Something like that. I've no idea what I'm going to do with the time though."_

_There was a short silence before Jo suddenly blurted out "You should find her. I know she didn't kill herself," she gabbled. "I know she wasn't a traitor. She wouldn't do that; Ruth would never do that."_

_Harry stared at her. The shock of hearing Ruth's name had caught him painfully unawares. And the realisation that it isn't just him who knows the truth made him want to weep._

_Jo looked at him, clearly expecting an admonishment and an angry demand to know who betrayed the secret but Harry said nothing. She fumbled in her pocket for her cigarettes, retrieving one and placing it between her lips. Her hand trembled as she attempted to light the cigarette and the movement shook Harry out of his inertia. He took the lighter from her, cupped his fingers around it to make a windbreak and ran his thumb firmly over the small metal wheel until an orangey flame appeared._

"_That's a very bad habit," he commented, watching Jo draw the tobacco smoke deep into her lungs._

"_There are worse."_

"_I know."_

_She took another long drag on her cigarette._

"_Zaf told me. Before he went to Iran, although I'd more or less worked it out myself. I think he just wanted to…unburden himself. I'm not sure."_

_Harry nodded but said nothing._

"_He told me Adam knew the truth," she continued, "and you, obviously. He said he was certain Malcolm suspected Ruth was still alive but would never discuss it. And Ros had never believed the official version of events but he didn't think she would ever voice her suspicions."_

"_And now you know."_

"_Don't be angry with Zaf, please, Harry. I swear I'll never tell another-"_

"_I'm not angry," he reassured her, "really, I'm not."_

And he hadn't been angry. Jo's assertion that he should find Ruth had been the push he'd needed. Now he has a plan, formulated over the last few days and still incomplete, but a plan nonetheless. He will have to be careful; keeping her safe is still his priority, no matter how much he wants to see her again. The thought that she may not want to see him is unwelcome but he has considered it. All he can hope is that her postcards are what he believes them to be - proof she hasn't entirely relinquished her old life, or him.

-x-

Harry wakes early. After eating his breakfast on deck, he washes up and stows everything away. He sails back to the boatyard at a leisurely pace, enjoying the last few hours of his trip but with a growing desire to get home and make a start on finding Ruth.

He spots a mooring next to a cabin cruiser that is sitting low in the water. As he gets closer, Harry realises it's the boat the surveillance team had been using. Water is gushing out of a large plastic hosepipe hanging over the bow and the sound of a diesel pump indicates there has been some kind of accident.

"You all right, mate?" the boatyard manager calls as Harry finishes tying the mooring lines.

"Fine, thank you. All in one piece," he adds, nodding towards the damaged cruiser, "unlike that one. What happened?"

"Bloody tourists…no offence mate. Clueless, the pair of them. Ran into Garrow Rock. I mean, it's not like it isn't big enough. They put a bloody massive hole in the boat and, to top it all, they couldn't work the bilge pumps." The yard manager stops for a moment and runs a hand over his stubbly chin. "Had to get the lifeboat to tow them back," he continues, "the skipper wasn't impressed. Said neither of them knew their aft from their elbow."

Harry laughs then apologises. "Sorry," he says, in a conciliatory tone. "It must be very annoying."

"Yeah," the other man sighs. "Mind you, the look on the buggers' faces when I told them how much the repairs are going to cost was priceless."

-x-

The drive back to London is uneventful. Harry is fully aware that his car is being tracked; a phone call to Malcolm had confirmed that. His colleague had also informed him that the Grid had been thoroughly searched under the pretext of a routine sweep and Harry's house had not escaped untouched either. Ros had stopped by on her way home one evening to check that everything was in order. As she'd opened the front door, she'd heard a sound at the rear of the house. When she'd gone to check, she'd found the back door unlocked. The next day, Malcolm had gone through the place.

"_There are listening devices in every room and cameras in the lounge, dining room, kitchen and bedroom,"_ the technician explained. _"I've left everything in place."_

Although the news is not unexpected, it's unwelcome and leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He is still under suspicion, despite the DG's assurances and it saddens rather than angers him.

By the time Harry gets home, he can feel the change in himself becoming more pronounced. He knows what is happening, he's seen it in others. Whatever it is that makes them what they are – 'the spy thing' Tom had called it – is losing its appeal. It's starting to leave him – something he'd never envisaged happening – but he can feel it draining away. It's time to find something to replace it; _someone_.

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Thanks for reading. One more chapter to go, hopefully in the next couple of days. :)  
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	3. Chapter 3

**Last chapter. Sorry it took longer than expected.

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Harry spends an hour wandering, seemingly aimlessly, around the city. He knows he should really spend more time ensuring no one is following him but it's a luxury he cannot afford. He takes a final look up and down the street, does an abrupt about-turn and then hurries up the stone steps of the bank.

The process of gaining access to his safety deposit box is relatively quick and he is left in private to remove the contents. With the two envelopes tucked safely inside his jacket, he returns to Thames House via a circuitous route.

He waits until late into the evening, when the Grid is finally deserted, before turning his attention to the letters he collected earlier. He pours himself a large measure of whisky and carefully opens the first envelope.

The letter from Zaf had arrived two months and three days after his funeral. It'd been delivered by a well dressed young woman who had approached Harry as he left the Home Office after a late meeting. Just as he'd been about to deny that his name was Harry Pearce, she'd told him she had a message from Bravo Tango Zulu 12. It was Zaf's call-sign and known only to a few people.

As she had explained she was Zaf's solicitor and was following his instructions, she'd handed over a buff A5 envelope and her business card, and then bid him goodnight.

Harry swallows down a mouthful of single malt and begins to read.

_Dear Harry_

_I'm writing this letter with the greatest hope that you'll never see it. If you are reading this, it'll be because I've not had the chance to tell you the contents in person. And it's most likely that will be because I'm not able to._

_I'll get straight to the point as I know you appreciate succinctness. Once Ruth had made the decision to sacrifice herself for you, there was nothing either me or Adam could do to make her change her mind. I hope you believe me when I say we tried, really tried. It was then we decided that, in order to protect her, and you, the arrangements that needed to be made to get her to safety would be split between us. I arranged for her passage out of the UK, onward travel and some temporary accommodation. Adam arranged her new identity and some money. He also organised for us to be tipped off when a body was found that could be passed off as Ruth. _

_We agreed that neither of us would tell the other the specific details of the arrangements we'd made. It was safer that way; in order for anyone to trace Ruth, they'd need both of us. However, we did decide that, in case anything should happen to one or other of us, we should lodge the information with someone trusted, outside of the service. _

_Enclosed with this letter are the details of the arrangements I made. I don't know how much use they well be, but it's a start. I have also included a letter for Ruth; please will you give it to her when you find her? And tell her it's delivered with a smile; she'll understand._

_Thanks._

_Zaf_

Harry picks up the two smaller envelopes that had been inside the larger one. Despite his sadness at the loss of his young officer, he feels buoyed by Zaf's optimism and thoughtfulness. He sets aside the letter addressed to Ruth and opens the other envelope, which has his name on it.

The contents reveal she was heading first to Boulogne, then down through France to a small village on the Atlantic coast near the Spanish border. From there she had a choice – south into Spain or Portugal or across France and into either Italy or Switzerland. Zaf had provided her with details of several contacts that could help her but the final decision about where she went next had been left to her.

Harry reads the information again. Despite the scant details, he at least has a starting point.

He pours himself another whisky and picks up Adam's letter.

This too had come into his possession via a solicitor, a man called Alfred Gerard, who'd phoned late one evening to explain he had something of importance for Harry, which he would have to collect in person.

It had transpired that Gerard's office was in Southport so Harry had driven north the next day. He'd collected the letter and then gone on to Blackpool to see Wes. They'd had an enjoyable afternoon, walking along the front and riding on the trams, and it had been with great reluctance that he'd got back in his car to return to London.

An array of memories vie for attention as Harry reads Adam's letter, which had obviously been updated after Zaf's death.

_I think you'll get to read this sooner rather than later, Harry. What happened to Zaf, and to Jo, has convinced me more than ever that time is against me. I'm sorry I couldn't talk Ruth out of leaving; I'm sorry for trying to hide how Fiona's death affected me; I'm sorry I almost destroyed our friendship. I know I shouldn't ask you but will you do three things for me? _

_Keep an eye on Wes and remind him from time to time that his mum and dad did love him although it may not always have seemed like it._

_Find Ruth and clear her name. She deserves to have her life back._

_Try not to think too badly of me._

_Adam_

These are tasks Harry is willing to undertake and he makes a silent promise to honour his young colleague's wishes.

The details of Ruth's new identity are in a separate note addressed to Harry and there is a small sealed envelope with her name on it, which he puts with Zaf's letter.

Now he has the information he requires to start looking for her, Harry feels a renewed sense of purpose, and his heart isn't quite so empty.

-x-

It takes several weeks and progress is painfully slow but eventually Harry establishes Ruth had stayed in France for just a few days before moving on to Spain. She'd initially gone to Madrid but hadn't remained there very long. The next trace of her is in Rome but then the trail runs cold, leaving him frustrated and depressed.

He's sitting hunched over his computer, only half concentrating on an email from the Home Office, when Malcolm appears.

"I just thought I'd let you the covert team have been back to your place today."

"Clearly not so covert then," Harry replies, acerbically.

"Well, no. Not if you're keeping an eye on them. The good news is they've removed all of their kit."

"And the bad news?"

"There isn't any."

Harry looks up, surprised. "What? They just removed everything and left?"

"Yes. Looks like you're no longer under suspicion. Didn't the DG say anything when you saw him earlier?"

"Malcolm, the DG never admitted to having any doubts about me in the first place. At least not to my face."

The technician smiles, ruefully. "No, I don't suppose he would." He pauses for a moment and then clears his throat. "Er, Harry. I was wondering…"

"About?"

"How you're getting on…"

"Getting on?" Harry repeats, with a hint of exasperation.

"You've started looking for her, for Ruth."

There is a short silence as Harry debates how to respond.

"You haven't been checking up on me have you, Malcolm?"

The appalled look on his colleague's face makes Harry immediately regret the comment. "Sorry." He sighs, heavily. "I've started looking, yes, but I'm not getting very far."

"She always was good at covering her tracks," Malcolm replies.

"Too good."

"You know, there is a way of contacting her. An old-fashioned way."

It takes Harry a few seconds to work out what Malcolm is suggesting. "A personal ad, in The Times." He smiles. "Old school tradecraft."

-x-

Harry looks at the words on the screen in front of him.

_Lone diner tired of making the bread rolls dance seeks companion. Gentle sense of humour essential._

He's chosen something she'll understand but, he hopes, will not betray either of them. He takes one final look at the advert and then clicks on submit. All he can do now is wait.

It's three long weeks before he receives a response via another ad.

_Rediscover your sense of Atlanticism at the powerful new exhibition of American modern art. Exclusive viewing next Thursday, 6.30 pm._

Harry reads and rereads the advert. In less than a week she will be in London. Excitement mingles with concern and he can't quite shake off the fear that she is being reckless in coming back to the UK. In the interests of his own sanity, he tries to put his worries to the back of his mind and have faith that she knows what she's doing.

-x-

Thursday evening is unseasonably warm and tourists mingle with office workers and locals on the Embankment, enjoying the early arrival of Spring. Harry checks his watch – he's ten minutes early. He discreetly surveys the crowds milling about outside the Tate Modern but he can't see her so he heads inside, making for the Turbine Hall.

He's trying to make sense of a large canvas when he realises that someone is standing beside him, closer than would be the norm for a fellow gallery visitor.

"I have no idea what this is supposed to be," he states, surprising himself by how calm he sounds.

"It's art, Harry. It doesn't have to _be_ anything."

Amusement is evident in her voice and when he turns to look at her, she's smiling. The sight of her renders him speechless.

"Nothing more to say?" she gently teases, making him laugh.

"Plenty to say," he replies, quietly. "I'm just not sure where to start."

At Ruth's suggestion, they leave the Tate and start to walk along the Embankment.

"I got your postcards," Harry remarks. "Not that they helped in finding you."

"That wasn't the purpose of them."

"No. I realise that." He considers voicing his thoughts on what her reasons for sending the cards had been but decides against it and they continue to walk, in silence.

"Something happened to Zaf, didn't it?" Ruth asks, as they pass Tower Bridge.

Harry has been dreading this moment but he won't lie or avoid her question; she deserves the truth. "Yes. And to Adam."

She stops by the railings and looks out over the river. "I want to know."

With a heavy heart, he tells her about the deaths of her two friends.

"They left something for you. Letters. I have them with me if you want…" He stops, his hand still inside his jacket, wondering if this is the right time or place. "Maybe…?"

"Can I see them please?" Ruth holds her hand out to him and he carefully places the two small envelopes into her palm.

He watches her as she reads, his chest constricting when he sees the tears she's been trying to hold back start to run down her face. His instinct is to reach out to her, to comfort her, but he doesn't know how she'll react.

"I'm so sorry, Ruth," he says, wishing he could offer her more than a few inadequate words. "I know you cared for both of them."

She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand and then looks at him. "And what about you, Harry? You also cared about them. You've lost them as well."

He finds himself silenced by her concern for him; concern that touches him deeply.

"I've worried about all of you," she states, quietly, her gaze shifting away from him and back to the river. "I wanted to know if everyone was all right so I-I got in touch with one of Zaf's contacts. But when he couldn't get hold of Zaf, I knew something was wrong."

"You didn't try to contact m-"

"I was scared, Harry," she interrupts. "Scared about what I might find out."

The thought that she's spent months worrying and fearful, not knowing which of her friends were alive or dead, breaks his heart.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to make contact with you. I should have done it sooner. I-"

She places her hand on his arm. "It's all right, Harry. Really, it is."

-x-

When dusk begins to set in, they decide to head for one of the riverside pubs. As they settle themselves at a corner table, something catches Ruth's eye.

"What's this," she asks, tugging at a rolled up magazine sticking out of Harry's jacket pocket. "Boats?"

"I thought it was about time I found myself a hobby," he admits, somewhat abashed. "Sailing was a bit of a passion of mine when I was a lad."

She flicks through the pages, pausing when she spots something. Her eyes skim over the details of the two advertisements he has marked. "You're thinking about buying one of these?"

"Stupid idea," he mutters, avoiding her gaze.

"Is it what you want to do?"

He takes a sip of his drink before replying. "Yes, it is."

"Then it isn't stupid," she smiles. "Have you made arrangements to go and look at them?"

Her question takes him by surprise. "Er, no, not yet. I've had other things on my mind."

"I could go with you," she offers, shyly. "Every captain needs a first mate, don't they?"

"Yes, they do," he replies. And his heart is no longer empty.

_The End_

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Thanks for reading. Feedback is appreciated. **


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